“Why you need change five times, Chlooe-girl? You only Chinese girl change more times than whole Canton village!
“Pau-Pau smells smoke. Are yoou smoking, Chloe-girl?” She might have been seventy-three but she could smell a covered-up cigarette a mile away.
Chloe fanned the air with a giant throw pillow.
“No way, Pau,” Chloe lied. “It's just a chem experiment that exploded, uh, with smoke. It's nada.”
Please don't bust me….
“Well, your ma want you right now,” Pau muttered.
“Something about her lo-fan cooking. Pau-Pau refuse to help cook lo-fan food for Chinese holiday.” She spat this in singsong Cantonese, high-pitched and squeaky.
“OK, I'll be downstairs in five minutes.” Chloe popped a handful of Altoids in her mouth.
The knocking stopped. Apparently Pau-Pau was over it, already shuffling back down the steps while her signature backless slippers, her tat-tat-high (remember—check the glossary!), echoed loudly throughout the hall.
The girls exhaled in mutual relief and Chloe went to shut the windows. Below her, a long shadow loomed across the lawn. Lucinda was spying. Again. And teetering so far over the garden hedge she looked ready to fall over flat in her, yep, little peach Chanel flats. Binoculars clandestinely tucked into her matching wicker gardening basket, she was honing in on her newest target: the buxom neighbor who'd just moved in across the street. As in, the real-live-Countess neighbor with the thirteen hottie mover minions who, apparently, was hosting her own welcome party to coincide with the Chinese New Year!
“And to think, Lupe, she's not even Chinese. What business does she have throwing a Chinese New Year soiree?”
Lupe opted not to respond and silently clipped roses from a bush.
“Just keep pruning! This way I won't look bad.”
Didn't her mom have better things to do than spy on the new neighbor? Like cook? And poor old Lupe. Sometimes Chloe thought it would be better if immigration did come and take her away.
And then Chloe witnessed a sight she would never forget. This Countess-person herself emerged, almost, like, poured out, from two enormous sliding glass doors, little decked-out attendant in tow. Chloe could have sworn a plume of yellow smoke floated in her wake as she strutted down a set of white marble stairs, a chapel-length silk-satin train sailing behind her and held up, yes, by a real, live somebody! A real, live somebody was holding her chapel-length silk-satin train as she prepared to cross Avocado Lane!
Chloe was intrigued. If only she had a closer view. She'd like to chat it up with a real, live Countess and ask how many wardrobe changes she required each day.
“Mrs. Leiberman!” the Countess called. “Ooh, a sack dress a la Balenciaga! How refreshing. What one sacrifices in shape one gets in space … space to breathe, no?”
Lucinda froze like a deer. The Countess was all red lips to here and buxom ta-tas to there and her hair was like Medusa's with a distinct gray tendril bouncing amid the velvety black curls.
“Well, good afternoon, dahling. I know it is last-minute but I wanted to invite you and Stanford to my little shindig up at the casita. ‘Tis the Year of the Tiger so of course I just had to throw a party. I look very good in tiger, you know.”
The mute attendee, a butler of sorts, gently set down her chapel-length silk-satin train and unscrolled an exquisite silk-screened fan, literally printed onto a fine leaf of silk. It was even trimmed in yellow crepe de chine braids and tied together with ivory fan sticks.
The center of the fan depicted the Countess, in repose, awash in a design of dragonflies and water lilies. Three sheets of vanilla-scented vellum were tucked into the folds, Chinese characters hand calligraphied on each. The center piece was in tiny, curly script and looked just like this:
White tie animal? But there was no such thing! And no one in Wells Park celebrated the Chinese New Year except for the Wong-Leibermans! Simply vexed, Lucinda politely excused herself and marched away.
It was definitely time for a change, I mean, for Chloe to change outfits. But first, she'd have to take another Polaroid. A longstanding symptom, Chloe Po-laroided her clothes at least once a day. She just had to. It was like, Polaroiditis.
Plus, Chloe hated to look at her entire reflection in one piece so she just photographed her clothes, and in parts. No matter how hard she tried Chloe felt like she would never go together for real. She thought she'd always look scrappy and strange. Oh, and definitely unhot.
Which brings us back to Dante. Until Chloe met Dante on the eve of her fifteenth birthday she never felt like anyone noticed her at all, let alone heard anyone tell her she was hot. (An overrated compliment for sure but at the time it did wonders for her imagined bad complexion.) Rumor had it people told Chloe she was cute, or at least said she had cute clothes plenty—but, like, something got lost in translation. Not until the words “Chloe, you're so fucking hot” came dripping from Dante's seemingly-all-too-sincere lips, soft and full and so easy to kiss, did she ever, ever consider herself appealing to look at, let alone h-o-t.
At present, Chloe Leiberman looked like this:
Her hair definitely looked Chinese, shiny and raven, but the texture was coarse, like her dad's borderline Jewish-fro. Her eyes were light brown like her dad's but they were almond shaped like her mom's. She was short like both parents but not really thick like him or thin like her. Basically, she was split down the middle, or rather, in thirds. She likened herself to a three-part picture puzzle she assembled and took apart constantly, rearranging the disparate pieces trying to make them feel whole. She never quite did feel like a whole person until she got dressed.
Chloe had decided to go with a military slash athletic theme, kinda Asian style. At first she thought wearing something old was anti the spirit of the Chinese New Year, a holiday where traditionally you're supposed to wear something new. But, like, her tried-and-true camouflage pants were silk, which is very Chinese, and the look would be new since she had never worn these pieces in this particular way. She figured it was an acceptable compromise.
Chloe slung the floods low around her narrow hips and secured them with a wide strip of hot-pink canvas. It was a makeshift belt with a giant gold buckle she'd bought on a sixth-grade discovery trip to Sacramento. (A class excursion where she did discover the joy of chunky quartz and hammered gold.)
She had cataloged sixty-three buckles next to her seventy-six pairs of shoes, all with mini pics stickered to their original boxes for easy reference. This buckle had an engraved dragon breathing fire—in keeping with her Asian theme.
To try to keep the peace with Lucinda, Chloe added her favorite shrunken warm-up jacket, well worn and frayed, over her “un-fancy” paint-splattered “Go Lakers!” T. You know, the one that really read “Ole!” since most of the letters were faded—something she and her other best friend, Sue Arriza, thought was rad. Chloe zipped it right below the ta-tas, as Sue's mom liked to call them, although Chloe preferred to call them de-nadas, since, for real, that was what they were.
Chloe switched the leather cuff for some black and white plastic bangles, added a charm bracelet with a peace symbol, and refastened a pearl choker around her neck since her mom just loved pearls. Slipping into four-inch satin peeptoes, new ones (but that she and Spring had sprayed metallic gold), Chloe snapped a picture, omitting her face from the frame, naturally, and felt complete.
“What's tonight's theme?” Spring asked, looking up from her magazine.
Chloe lit up. She loved to discuss themes.
“A tribute to the Chinese New Year! A holiday about letting go of the old so you can, like, let in the new but still mix up both. That's why I'm doing a vintage-inspired thing but in a new way.”
Spring looked totally perplexed. “But how do the Lakers fit in?”
“It's my Ode to Team Sports but Not,” Chloe explained.
“But you don't like sports, Chlo.”
“It's supposed to be, like, ironic, Spring.”
“Ohhh
h ….” Spring nodded, not exactly getting the point.
“Bean,” Chloe ventured, “of course I don't do team sports for real. Or … football players who could practically be my younger brother.”
“Jeez, Chloe, we're not doing anything! And what was that about sewing and embroidery not being assets on an app? They certainly are assets on a design school app—especially for Central Saint Martins. Right?”
Sure … If Chloe were to apply for real which she wasn't about to do.
“Spring Bean, you know fashion school's NOT on the Wong-Leiberman list even if it was the only school on mine. So … I decided not to apply anywhere.”
Spring's jaw fell, To. The. Floor.
“But it's January, Chloe! Did you honestly not mail in any college apps? And, like, when were you planning on sharing this vital info with me?”
Chloe felt so guilty she just wanted to crawl back into her closet and dieee. Actually, she felt strangely compelled to go shopping for vintage thermals online. No doubt, breaking the latest to her family would be much more difficult than breaking it to Bean. It was a good thing Chloe opted for camo tonight cuz this was certainly gonna be war.
La Bomba
Drop bombs in camouflage
Think camouflage will let you hide a thing
The sprawling oak table was set for a king and his court—or, at least, like, the UN. A violated duck held center stage, fanned out on a silver tray, stuffed with tiny berries and leaves. Stacks of dumplings, latkes, cheese rolls, brisket, white rice, and bok choy exploded from fanciful dishes still gleaming with polish. Pale blue and white china perched atop giant gilded chargers. Monogrammed napkins, starched and militant, lined up next to the plates—blanched so white you wouldn't dare use one to actually wipe your mouth. Chloe was sandwiched between Zeyde and Pau, Stan and Lucinda sat at opposing heads of the table, and Mitchell sprawled out solo, for some reason meriting an entire side to himself.
Crystal goblets overflowed with apple cider (the Wong-Leibermans’ was strictly a nonalcoholic home), and Mitchell raised a glass for a toast. He puffed out his chest, pectoral muscles well defined under an emerald green cashmere vest, various patches for team sports and clubs and accolades adorning the sides. Less the double-breasted blazer (tan for spring, navy for fall) Mitchell was still wearing his school uniform. His vest was layered over a baby pink oxford, sleeves rolled up twice on each side to display his tanned forearms, manicured nails, and prized Cartier tank watch. The special holiday merited a special bow tie of course, and his khakis (double reverse pleat, ew!) were of course in top form, immaculate and wrinkle free. His brown woven belt matched his brown Top-Siders, which he wore sans socks. Sans socks! What was up with this Euro-metrosexual detail? Chloe wouldn't be surprised if her brother slept like this—just in case the proverbial camera still rolled.
“First and foremost,” Mitchell began, “I'd like to thank our present administration for rescuing the American economy from the former spendthrift liberal regime.”
“Oy, jesus, here we go.”
Tiny beads of sweat began to run down Zeyde's cheeks. Zeyde featured quite the bold fashion statement tonight: tan nylon track pants paired with an “It's Sergio” track jacket, label in bold energetic stripes, definitely circa 1993 and not quite old enough to be cool. Not to be underdressed, he topped the look off with a well-worn corduroy blazer, almond colored and frayed at the seams.
“This great administration,” Mitchell continued, “has ensured that the good life in Wells Park will not only be possible, but will continue to flourish.”
Zeyde furiously patted himself dry with a well-loved and -used hankie, pulled from the aforementioned corduroy blazer pocket.
“Chloe doll,” he lamented, “my heart really could just plotz at such, forgive me for swearing, such chozzerai.”
Chloe nodded amicably even though she knew that was total chozzerai. If anyone's heart was weak for real, it was Pau's—not Zeyde's. But more importantly, should she wear silver bangles tomorrow or gold?
“A toast to the elders! To Zeyde, he who hath set forth the illustrious tone for the entire Leiberman family to aspire toward and beyond! And to Pau, an exemplary model of courage and strength. We give thanks to Lord Buddha for her quick and smooth recovery. Welcome to our home.”
Buddha? Since when had the young Republican started invoking Buddha? And if he paid any attention to anyone other than himself he would know that Pau was in remission—which, hello, is not the same thing as being recovered!
“A toast to my father! Not just my father, but my mentor too. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for teaching me not only how to meet but also how to exceed that bottom line. To our growing portfolios!”
“L'chayim!” Stan cried, raising a frosted glass high.
“And, lastly, to my radiant mother.” Mitchell mused. “Oh where shall I begin? Thank you for this festive meal—yet another culinary achievement to add to the ever-growing list.”
Lucinda blushed. “This? This was nothing,” she pooh-poohed. Lucinda didn't do compliments well. They made her very uncomfortable.
“Eh-em,” Mitchell coughed. “I suppose I should offer a toast to my sister….”
Not one to ever lack for words, Mitchell suddenly appeared confused. Chloe made up her mind. Tomorrow, it would be all about gold. Aztec, drapey, beaded gold.
“Mitchelllaah, fi-di-la!” Pau-Pau cried, tapping a glass impatiently.
“Yesss. Let's see. I suppose I can thank you, Chloe, for keeping the gossip lively at Eden Prep and the house, well, well entertained. Oh, and for having hot friends like Spring.”
So it was true! They really did go public! She debated whether to toss the cider in his face now or later and chalk it to the evening's “entertainment,” but Stan interrupted her thoughts.
“Well then, before we dig in, why don't you add something to Mitch's toast, Chloe—which by the way, son, was quite impressive.”
Chloe gulped. She suddenly forgot how to speak English altogether. Five pairs of eyes switched to her and her heart began to pound. All she could do was stare vacantly into her bowl, twirling and twirling her silver spoon, until the only thing she saw inside her tureen was a tiny version of herself, drowning in the low-carb, wheat-free matzoh ball soup. She saw herself dressed in ancient prison black and whites, tiny skullcap pulled over her small ears, clutching a tin bowl in a cold cell while dark iron bars clamped down, all around, all around. Wait a sec, she thought, this skullcap could be kinda cute if it was paired with a billowy peasant skirt, a red one, hand embroidered, say, with cockatoos and—
“Lots of slashed ruffles. Definitely gold.”
Mitchell snickered. Lucinda cringed. Stan looked totally concerned.
“With my trusty white Cons,” she whispered, staring far, far away.
“What a luftmensh, this one,” Zeyde declared. “Head always up in the clouds.”
Chloe would wear this new look Monday! As a tattered yet triumphant Ode to Having Survived the Holiday Meal!
“Chloe-girl, hi-yaaa!” Pau-Pau cried. “Pau-Pau don't have nine live.”
“Sorry, Pau.” Chloe shifted uncomfortably in her seat, like she had an irritating loose thread that needed to be cut off. Actually, she felt like an irritating loose thread that had been, like, unraveling for seventeen and a quarter years and just had to be cut-the-fuck-off-now….
“Well, Chloe Wong,” Lucinda spat, “answer your father, for heaven's sake!”
Chloe inhaled deep. “All right then. But I should preface what I'm about to say by thanking everyone in the family first, especially Mitch.”
Mitchell appeared confused. Chloe almost felt, like, sorry for the burden he carried in his perfect khaki pockets.
“Thanks, Mitch,” Chloe began, “for always being such a model Eden Prepster and Wong-Leiberman. At least one of us will be going to college and you can all guess who that one is because Ididn'tmailinany-applicationsandIforgottotaketheSATstoo. Like, Amen, or rather, Gung Hay Fat Cho
y.”
Chloe wasn't sure who reacted first. It was all one giant, multilingual gasp. Cider spilled, bok choy flew, and a lambasting cry all merged as one. Even Wally stopped eating and poked a curious head up from his “fancy” bowl—you know, one of those elevated feeders so he didn't have to, like, exert his neck or anything.
“That's real funny, Chlo,” Mitch braved. “Like I said, prime-time reality entertainment.”
“Bu—but I distinctly recall you took the SATs three times with Spring,” Lucinda stammered.
… Not reaally. Attempt #1: She had been out uber-late with Dante. Attempt #2: She was bidding all night on vintage online. Attempt #3: She was just kin da over attempting it.
“But you promised us you mailed and certified all your applications back in November! Surely you mailed at least one application … a state, safety school even?”
What was so safe about college anyhow?
“Well, that's just great!” Zeyde wailed. “To be a luftmensh is one thing, but to be a schlemiel who thinks she doesn't need college, absolute meshugge!”
“For once, Zeyde, I actually agree.” Lucinda clutched the sides of the table tight and restrained herself from hurling her plate of leafy bok choy and parboiled duck straight at Chlo. But then, Stan totally freaked.
Stanley slammed the table so hard even the chandelier shook and swayed, threatening to, like, decapitate any unlucky victim of his sudden wrath!
“I do NOT bill four hundred dollars an hour so my daughter can wind up a bum on the street!” he roared. “And the street is exactly where'll you'll be, missy, once I'm through with you!”
Chloe swallowed hard. Couldn't they, like, discuss this situation? Other options—B-list schools—C-list even! On the streets? That was harsh. Her dad, like, never took it there.
“I'm sorry, Daddy,” Chlo mumbled.
“Sorry? Sorry just isn't good enough!”
Stan's entire face swelled up and turned to a shade of red Chloe had never seen erupt on human flesh.
Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong) Page 3